


morning delight

by blackeyedblonde



Category: True Detective
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Marty, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gentle Sex, M/M, Morning Sex, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9884720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/pseuds/blackeyedblonde
Summary: “It’s like that, huh,” Rust says, slipping a hand up under Marty’s shirt to brace around his rib cage, then exploring lower, further, until he’s tracing along the softer inner part of Marty’s thighs where his shorts have rucked up.“Quit teasin’,” Marty says, without any honest dismay or heat to it. His body curls into Rust’s, ready and willing, though what he wants will take a little more time just yet. “You already know how it is.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fragilelittleteacup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/gifts), [hieroglyphics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hieroglyphics/gifts).



> Y'all should totally hit up [Rainy Mood](http://www.rainymood.com/) while you read this for that full atmospheric audio experience. 10/10 highly recommended.

 

Rust opens his eyes just as rain is beginning to slant in harder against the bedroom window, waxing and waning between heavy sheets and a quieter trickle as it rolls across the roof overhead. He’s still lingering along the margins of a dream and the first few raindrops ring like single piano notes in the back of his mind, soft as a music box’s song.

The room is dark, early morning veiled over with ironclad storm. It can’t be too far past six o’clock but Rust doesn’t bother checking the time, only rolls over onto his side and watches Marty’s chest gently rise and fall one easy breath at a time. His face is turned away toward the other side of the room, showing off the bridge of his nose and brow. It’s too dim still to see the sparse fan of his lashes but Rust knows they’re there, as thin and fine as corn silk. 

Lightning flashes through the closed blinds and the accompanying rumble stirs in Rust’s chest as it bleeds out from the sky. He doesn’t reach out and touch Marty, none too eager to wake him up, but in the end he doesn’t have to. Another crack of thunder cues a change in the other man’s breathing, just the smallest hitch to let Rust know he’s awake. And then his eyes are open, gauging the shadowed morning still filling their bedroom while he listens to the drumming sound of rain.

Marty shifts over onto his side in turn, finding himself looking blearily into Rust’s open eyes, and manages to slur out something still thick with sleep. “Like I already knew you were sittin’ here waiting on me to wake up.”

“Wasn’t,” Rust says simply, pulling his knees up some underneath the sheets. He smiles softly anyway, one dimple below his eye deepening enough that Marty can see it through the half-dark. “Was just watching you, is all.”

“Thought you didn’t hold stock in such practice,” Marty grumbles, reaching above his head to stretch with a faint pop in his shoulder and satisfied groan. “So long as it ain’t you being watched, huh?”

“Mhmm,” Rust hums, content enough to just lay here with Marty and listen to the rain. He closes his eyes, still feeling warm and heavy under the blankets. “Can go back to sleep, if you want,” he says. “Maybe the storm’ll die down here in a minute.”

“Maybe it won’t,” Marty says, low and throaty and full of promise, and Rust can feel that tone spark deep in his stomach more than he hears it. Their knees brush and knock together under the blankets and chills crawl up his calves and thighs in a little prickling shock of something like anticipation. He already knows how this could go and probably will go; has seen and felt it many times before, like his body is falling into muscle memory painted over with everything Marty makes him feel.

“One day,” Rust says, still thinking he can’t make this too easy of a conquest, “you’re gonna have to pop a pill and wait an hour before you can get it up enough to make good on any promises.”

Marty has the good humor to laugh at that these days, though he reaches out and gets a hand around the back of Rust’s neck to pull him closer. “All that means is I’ll have an extra hour to figure out how I’m gonna wear you out enough to where you don’t sass off with that mouth so much.”

His hand slides down to paw underneath the elastic of Rust’s boxers and cop a handful of his ass, gentle enough but with honest intent, though Marty goes still for a moment too long before he makes the next move. The only sound in the room is rain slanting against the roof and thunder rattling the window in its frame, but Rust can practically hear Marty thinking in the small space between them.

“You want me to put the coffee on and come back when you got a few ideas?” he asks, even as he nuzzles up somewhere under Marty’s chin to press a crooked kiss there, feeling morning whiskers scratch along his nose and cheek.

“I want you to stay right here,” Marty says, waiting for another roll of thunder to pass. His voice changes some, lowers and softens an octave into how he gets when he’s gone a touch bashful. “Maybe I already had an idea.”

Despite any of the sleep still hanging around his senses, Rust’s ears pick up on what goes unsaid. This is a conversation he and Marty have without the frankness of open words, sometimes. There are times for asking and then there are times when they don’t need to ask.

A look passes between them in the greyness of morning, easy and languid. Marty draws his hand up to the middle of Rust’s back and lets it rest there in a warm weight, waiting for an answer to his unspoken suggestion. They both heard it loud and clear, and Marty gets his wish when Rust shifts closer and presses his body up into the curve of what was open for him.

Marty gives easy under his mouth and hands, and it still surprises Rust sometimes, maybe, how soft they can be for one another. He’d never had much doubt, after Marty first brought him home, that they’d wind up here eventually—that fortune had told itself in good time. He just never had the honest notion, at least back in the beginning of things, that it’d turn into anything that really meant something more than a mutual release. The kind of exchange where he’d have stakes set on both sides of the line, every part of him burning to give and take all at the same time.

And Marty won’t ask for what he really wants, but the warm hums low in his chest and the lazy kisses he’s pressing into Rust’s skin spell it out easy enough. Rust knows—has known, for a good long while now—that Marty likes to give in to somebody else’s whims when the mood strikes him right. Hand over the reins and let himself be taken places he hasn’t been before, or places he doesn’t want to explore on his own.

“It’s like that, huh,” Rust says, slipping a hand up under Marty’s shirt to brace around his rib cage, then exploring lower, further, until he’s tracing along the softer inner part of Marty’s thighs where his shorts have rucked up.

“Quit teasin’,” Marty says, without any honest dismay or heat to it. His body curls into Rust’s, ready and willing, though what he wants will take a little more time just yet. “You already know how it is.”

Learning what Marty liked when he wasn’t the one at the wheel of things required some figuring out at first. Rust took it upon himself as something of a private study; Marty was a book he was always running his finger down the spine of, even if he’d already read that same pages a thousand times over the past twenty-odd years. There were still things that surprised him, sometimes. Certain things he hadn’t expected to find, especially that very first time he was awarded the trust and opportunity it took to bend Marty over and be the only man to ever fuck him.

And so they’ve messed around some since then, here and there. Rust has indulged him in that much, mostly because he knows how Marty enjoys it. An old pair of handcuffs pulled from a box in the closet, a satin necktie wrapped around his eyes—small thrills that bleed into moments of delight.

With all its softness and rainy lullaby wrapping around them like a shroud, this morning deserves something of a softer touch. Rust knows, in the gleam of his mind’s eye, that Marty has showered his broken mind and body with enough tenderness to last another lifetime, so much that his chest aches and swells to even think of it all sometimes. That’s something Marty won’t ask him for in return, because Marty has never asked him to do anything more than stay—but Rust will give it to him.

 _Wants_ to give it to him, here where they’re only two in this little house being christened under the cool wash of springtime rain. A fitting backdrop to what Rust sees unfolding around them as he gently starts coaxing Marty out of his nightshirt. It lands somewhere on the carpet and he presses his mouth to the back of Marty’s neck as he reaches beneath the blankets, pushing the other man’s boxers down so they’re caught around his thighs.

“Get rid of those for me,” Rust says, feeling Marty shove the cotton the rest of the way down somewhere until it’s lost in the sheets at the foot of the bed. He runs his hand along the length of Marty’s side, feeling the warmth of his body tremble and twitch under his touch. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Jesus, Rust,” Marty says, though he doesn’t make any move to argue the matter. He heaves out a sigh, contentment mixed with shaky anticipation, and scoots back until his ass is pressed into the hardening heat of Rust’s groin. “C’mon then, before I fall back asleep.”

Rust’s mouth quirks up even though Marty can’t see him, and when he props himself up to reach for the bedside drawer he pauses on the way back to press a kiss somewhere near Marty’s pink-tipped ear. He settles himself back in flush behind him and figures this way might be the easiest without getting Marty up on his knees—more room to keep close, less strain on both sets of their tired bones.  

It’s a good angle to go through the slow ritual of getting ready, and Rust tries to murmur small nothings that get drowned out under the rainfall anyhow while he reaches under the sheet with slicked fingers to start working Marty open. He listens to his measured breathing, feels the tension ebb and fall and tighten through Marty’s body while his muscles slowly begin to relax. A soft curse or two spills into the air but Marty’s doesn’t fight it, pressing himself back into Rust’s hand to try and get them there faster.

The storm seems to be moving further east, blocking out any of the early-morning sun that would usually be trying between cracks in the blinds by now. Rust blinks against the cool greyness of the room, panting a little against Marty’s bare shoulder. It’s the sensation of being wrapped in sheer muslin the color of mourning doves and then lashed against the welcome burn of a furnace, and he knows Marty can feel how hard he’s getting with the length of his cock pressing into the small of his back.

“Almost,” Marty pants a little breathlessly, spreading his legs further. “C’mon.”

Rust kisses his neck again and lets his mouth rest against the top knob of Marty’s spine, words muffled soft there. He pulls his fingers free and Marty makes the tiniest little wrecked sound, only barely loud enough to hear.

It takes a moment to fumble with the condom wrapper and then Rust takes himself in hand, gives himself a few solid strokes and slides it on. He’s harder than Marty is, who withholds from reaching down to touch himself while he waits, and slicks himself with the bottle he’d retrieved from their drawer a little while before.

“Stay like you are,” Rust murmurs, spooning up behind Marty and guiding his cock into place. Marty hisses when he feels where they touch, though he eagerly pushes back into it, more than ready by now. “Just like this for me.”

Slow, slow, just the barest bit of pressure—Rust blows all the air from his lungs like bellows and then draws it back in, getting a hand around Marty’s thigh and pulling it up at an angle to ease the way. They’ve done this once before with practice, but he still wants to take it slow, giving Marty’s body all the time it needs to take him.

For all Rust’s gentling him through it Marty’s nearly shaking while he waits, restless as a horse pawing at the gate. A feeble crack of thunder echoes overhead and he scrabbles around to find Rust’s hand on his thigh with his own, touching and coaxing him along with a brush of his fingers.

“Come on, then,” he rasps, voice tightening when Rust urges himself forward another inch. “That’s it now.”

They finally fit flush together with one final push and it seems to knock the wind from them both, leaving only the sound of a single gasp wrenching free. Rust clamps his eyes shut and tries to keep his grip around Marty’s thigh through the blissful heat surrounding him now, already feeling sweat begin to shine on his brow.

“Marty,” he says, and that’s all he can manage for the moment. He swivels his hips and grinds in deeper, letting streaks of colored lightning paint the backs of his eyelids. It’s always felt good like this, damn near perfect, but Marty clenches around him and it makes a shudder rock through his body.

“You’d better hurry up and fuck me proper,” Marty says, pushing his ass back onto Rust’s cock as he reaches around to give himself a good stroke. “God damn it Rust, before we get washed away in this fuckin’ flood.”

Rust takes his encouragement in newfound stride and starts to move, digging his fingers into the muscle of Marty’s thigh until he imagines it might hurt. They can’t go fast like this, at least not as fast as Marty might like, but he settles in for the long and languid stroke and that seems to be enough to get where they need to go without hurrying.

They fall into an easy rhythm of give and take, a rocking tide lapping up over the beach. It hadn’t taken long after the first time, but it’d somehow turned out to be easier, working with Marty’s body in bed than it had been in their first seven years of partnership. Unspoken and intuitive, almost, more than a learned thing—the way they fit and moved together despite all hallmarks of age and injury.

“Oh darlin’,” Marty says, panting into the room while the rain has finally slowed to a drizzle outside, and his little peal of winded laughter is how Rust knows he’s having a good time. “ _Oh_ —Rust, right there.”

Rust lets go of Marty’s thigh and reaches around to place a hand against his stomach, lazily sinking into him again and again just like he’d asked. He’s stunned a little by how he can feel himself moving there from the outside, the kind of small intimacy so boundless he couldn’t even put words to it if he tried.

The moment isn’t lost on Marty, either, and he brings a palm up to rest against where Rust holds onto him, curling his fingers into the spaces between the other man’s until they interlock. He doesn’t say anything about it, maybe too far gone now to speak, but has offered himself entirely up to everything Rust is giving him. Rust’s hand moves lower even still after a moment that feels like an eternity, taking Marty’s cock in his hand, and starts working him steady while his hips slow to an agonizing grind.

It doesn’t take much more than that. Rust bucks up on the first thrust toward his own release and Marty lets go in that same moment, finally, blissfully, crying out with a shuddering gasp into the stillness of the room around them. His body clenches tight and Rust chases his own fire through it, digging his fingers back into Marty’s hip to fuck him the rest of the way over the edge. His vision goes white for a split second and then he’s cramming his nose and mouth against Marty’s shoulder to muffle his own voice, still buried to the hilt and shaking through the last of it.

When Rust comes back to himself he realizes Marty’s caught his hand again, holding it back against his stomach while his heart thumps fast and steady. They’re both breathing raggedly and have kicked the sheets down to the foot of the bed in a rumpled mess, but Rust doesn’t let go of Marty’s hand. He squeezes his fingers, feels the band of metal burning there and holds on even tighter.

They lie there together, mostly unable to move, until Marty brings Rust’s knuckles up to his mouth for a kiss before letting go. They pull apart, almost reluctant despite the slickness of sweat between their bodies, and Rust cleans himself up at the edge of the bed before sliding back up to nestle himself against Marty’s side.

They both watch the ceiling fan spin in slow circles for a few long moments, bodies warm and spent and tired again. It’s only reading a hair past seven on the alarm clock now, and Rust feels his eyes slip shut while Marty breathes easy beside him.

“You still wanna get up and make that coffee?” Marty teases, reaching across himself to push his fingers through Rust’s hair. The sun’s finally coming up now in the wake of the dying storm, glowing blush and amber through the cracks in their blinds.

“Hell no,” Rust murmurs, and even with his eyes closed he can still feel Marty's smile when he leans in close to kiss him.  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> A page of this has been sitting on my hard drive for over a year now, but I wanted to dedicate the finished little diddy to two awesome fandom friends. I wish I could do more for you guys, but I hope you know I appreciate all your amazing art and support lately ❤ Feel better soon, Teacup!


End file.
